


Pacifist

by LiteratureSoul



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Brother Feels, Brotherly Love, Crime Fighting, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Rape, Self-Harm, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2028864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiteratureSoul/pseuds/LiteratureSoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean saves rape victim Castiel, he is thrust into a world of lies and revelations where the truth hurts more than he could imagine. Left to drown in a city that is destroying itself, Dean finds salvation in the man whose scars help wash his clean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bloody Truth

 

He kept punching the man. His jaw, his neck, his face, his nose, it didn’t matter, any piece of skin would do. 

Except, he didn’t see the man. 

He didn’t see his swollen eyes, bald head or his knocked out front teeth; mouth pleading with him for his mercy, for his forgiveness.

But he didn’t stop; he couldn’t stop hitting what he perceived to be dirty blonde cropped hair, freckled cheeks, green eyes…wide with guilt.

He kept hitting this conjured vision of his younger self; wanted to paint his face red, wanted to drown him in the blood of his mistakes.

Even as his fist ached, he raised it again for another solid punch that would have surely done the man in when he was grabbed from behind, arms forced behind his back.

He didn’t think so many officers could fit into the narrow alleyway. More officers filled in, one after another, trying to immobilize him.

He vaguely heard one of the many hands holding him down hiss, “Jesus Dean…what did you do?” His face was pressed to the rough, gravelly concrete as he managed to turn his head under the force of the palm holding his neck down.

He felt as though he was coming out of a fog, a mist that cleared and as he faced the image of his younger self staring at him through a blood soaked face, turned into a bald headed, middle aged thug who looked near death’s door.

“Damn Winchester!” someone near his leg whispered. “Somebody call an ambulance. We need the paramedics now!”

 He was being grappled with to sit down, shoved down to sit against the alley wall, slime, muck and God knows what else staining his clothes, slithering down his back.

“Winchester! Dean! Can you hear me?” A white hand snapped just under his nose.

He struggled to focus, the face seemed familiar. Thin, long-nosed….young…too young…Garth.

“Man oh man, Dean.” He shook his head, shaggy brown hair moving with him; eyes wide with terror and underlying admiration.

“The chief is gonna rip you a new one for this.”

“Yeah.” Dean croaked, easily shoving off the hands holding him back. He slip up the wall and staggered back to the alley’s exit, to where he vaguely remembered parking his patrol car. He felt jostled as paramedics ran past him to the bleeding man on the floor behind him.

He slumped against the wall outside the alleyway; the always reliable strength of his legs momentarily leaving him. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing white and black dots to swim across his vision. He was no novice to self harm.

He scrubbed a bloody hand down his face; his eyes popped open and stood ramrod straight as if he was struck by lightning standing where he was. His eyes met the scrutinizing gazes of the handful of other officers who waiting near his car.

Dean shuffled towards his car with as much grace as a club footed ballerina, mustering up some confidence from his many reserves.

He pulled the door open hard enough as if to pull it off its hinges. He didn’t linger; numb to his surroundings but lucid enough to see the thug being loaded into the back of the ambulance and driven off onto the highway towards the hospital.

He headed off to the station even before being radioed to do so.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Alastair was not his friend.

He was his mentor.

He taught Dean everything he knew.

How to be ruthless. Cutthroat. Intimidating.

Alastair could be fond when it suited him, but otherwise all menacing 6-feet of him tended to be cruel and mocking.

He was in his mid forties, graying sandy blond hair with twinkling grey eyes, with a nasal voice that often grated on Dean’s nerves.

He was waiting in his office; the biggest in the station, which he found perverse pleasure in mentioning daily. His feet were up on the massive mahogany desk, his face eerily illuminated by the computer screen on his right, at an angle that hid its contents from hidden Dean’s sight.

His eyes were glued to the said screen; he didn’t look up when Dean entered.

“Dean, Dean, Dean.” He drawled.

“Chief.” Dean stood rigidly by the closed door.

“Come on Dean,” he cajoled. “When the door’s closed we’re friends. Sit.” He gestured to the only couch in the room.

Dean hated that couch.

Hated what it sitting on it made him do.

Hated how it made him hate himself more. (If that were possible.)

But he sat anyway.

“So I saw your little number on our Mr. Allen here.”

He turned the screen to face Dean and he saw a poor pixilated image (probably taken with someone’s camera phone) of the thug’s face or Mr. Jasper Allen. His face looked gory, all black, blue and red; one eye swollen and black and his mouth a mess of missing teeth and bleeding gums.

“ Quite fetching if I do say so myself. Could of done with two blackened eyes in my opinion. But…oh Dean…”

His voice became deeper and Dean shook minutely, holding in his need to puke at the feel of Alastair’s voice like oil being rubbed into his skin.

“After all my training and you never made a move to use those skills and then out of the blue I get this?” he gestured toward the screen, almost caressing it. “Best feeling ever: seeing your student flourish, using what he’s learned. I feel like a proud father.”

Dean felt like ripping his throat out. With his teeth.

“So!” Alastair opened the file on Jasper Allen on his desk. “Jasper Allen. Notorious rapist. Elusive. Prefers…young boys…” He looked up at Dean who studiously avoided his gaze while trying not to break his jaw with how hard he was clenching his teeth.

“Caught in the act by our very own Dean Winchester.” He finished. “Has a nice ring to it don’t you think?” Alastair spun in his chair, smacking his lips as though tasting the words. “You know…after what happened to your brother and all…”

Dean stood up abruptly.

Respect be damned.

“Are we done here sir?”

Alastair took his time righting his chair and facing Dean whilst steepling his fingers in front of him.

“Well Dean, I’m supposed to warn you against such violence and rash action and blah blah blah police image must be upheld blah.”

He did air quotes for the majority this.

“However….I’ve been trying to get you to act on those impulses for quite some time now, so I can’t be bothered because I know you’re true potential…and this…this barely scratches the surface.” Alastair turned to the computer image again.

“All I can say is keep up the good work son. You’re dismissed.”

Dean slammed the door behind him even as Alastair gave him a tiny wave.

He couldn’t have gotten out that room fast enough.

He stalked down the corridor, heading for the bathroom to wash the blood of his hands when he was barreled into by Garth.

“Dean!” he tried to wrap his arm around his shoulders but couldn’t begin to reach Dean’s towering height.

“Man, I heard you got off easy from the chief! Lucky!”

“Yeah…lucky.” Dean said distantly and continued walking.

“Hey man, I’ve got some news…”

“Not now Garth.” Dean practically growled. Some alone time was all he asked.

“Yeah yeah I know, Princess moody needs some brooding time, but listen!” He held up a hand when Dean looked to interrupt.

“The guy’s here.”

Sometimes Dean felt like strangling his partner and close friend. Especially times when he was massively vague with most times important information.

“What guy Garth?” Dean sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You know, the guy you saved from almost being raped. Black hair, blue eyes. He’s here. Said he wants to talk to you.”

“Have someone else take his statement. I’m tired.” His voice cracked on the last word. His shoulders sagged.

“I know Dean. Believe me I know. Just…just talk to him. It seems important.”

“Alright alight. Just…lemme wash my hands first.” He ducked into the bathroom without waiting on a response from Garth.

* * *

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Castiel was no idiot.

He knew what he was about to do would surely back fire on him, result in pure mayhem.

He figured the world was about to go to shit anyway; might as well break a few glasses.

He pulled the jacket around him more firmly around his shoulders; its sheer size engulfed him in a warm cocoon that felt heavenly in the small, air conditioned office.

He thinks the jacket may belong to man he’s here to see.

He vaguely remembers anything after Jasper was thrown off him, the adrenaline quickly wearing off when his brain registered no need to fight.

He felt warm hands touch his face, surprisingly gentle for the shadow of the big man he saw above him.

He heard, “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Then the man was gone and was replaced with others, men women…he was too half way unconscious to care.

He woke up to prodding in the back of an ambulance and skirted out of the hands of the paramedics who sought to hold him down.

“I’m fine!” he nearly screamed. “I’m fine! He didn’t rape me!”

He nearly did though.

Castiel remembered the absolute fear. The terror of his immobile hands, how he had no control, no way to escape…

His throat clenched at the memories.

He got away this time…but there would be others…there are always others.

He nearly jolted out of his skin when he heard the door behind him open.

In stepped the officer who saved him; he assumed it was him, he smelled the same as the jacket: sandalwood, freshly cut grass, oil and rainwater.

He walked lightly for such a large man; Castiel presumed if he were to stand up, he would reach just below his shoulder. He was lithe where this man was large; pale where he was bronze; a mouse to a lion.

Dean sat in the wooden chair next to Castiel; slowly so as not to startle him.

They stared at eachother, taking eachother’s measure without notice.

Dean saw how disheveled this ‘Castiel’ looked; pale and tired. His eyes, bright blue and beautiful he could admit, looked like they was accustomed to black eyes and lowering themselves in submission…like he was doing now.

Castiel gazed upon a god in human form. Tan skin and freckled cheeks. Short light brown hair and eyes so green Castiel felt dazzled. The epitome of summer, he had heard Dean Winchester described and he can now confirm it.

He looked down; such majesty couldn’t be stared upon without command.

“Hey.” Dean said softly, reaching a finger and lifting Castiel’s head.

“Don’t be afraid. I don’t bite.” He smiled, teeth gleaming and dropped his hand.

“You wanted to speak to me?” He prompted at Castiel’s silence.

Castiel gulped.

“Uh…yes. I do have something to tell you. Something you should know.”

“Yeah?” Dean smiled indulgently, as if allowing Castiel this moment, knowing what he had to say couldn’t possibly matter to him.

It angered him a little. Always being underestimated.

“Yes. You should stop beating yourself up for Sam’s death.”

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The temperature in the room dropped and it seemed as if time stood still.

Dean’s smile dropped and he froze.

He watched the smaller man beside him chew his lower lip, hunching further into his jacket.

“What did you say?” He didn’t think his voice could be that quiet.

Castiel licked his lips to start again.

“I said…”

“What do you know about Sam?” Dean interrupted hissing.

_“What do you know about his death?”_

_“And what the fuck do you think you know about me?”_

_“Who the fuck are you?”_

The words kept pouring out his mouth like vomit. His wall of emotions had taken enough beating today; everything was let lose.

He didn’t remember getting up or pacing or slamming his hands against his desk.

“What the fuck do you know huh? You know how I left him for a few minutes, huh? Selfish little prick that I was, to see some girl I can’t even fucking remember, huh? How I came back and all these men were all over him and he was screaming and all I could hear were his cries and these men…those fucking disgusting men…all over…I couldn’t….”

He was disgusted with himself. He was about to cry in front of this little fucker, the one who opened his damn mouth and acted like he knew shit.

He covered his eyes for a minute, collecting himself.

He heard Castiel take a shuddering breath and he said, “I know Dean. I was there.”

“What?” Dean hissed, hand still in front of his face.

Castiel took another breath.

“I know because I was there Dean. It wasn’t Sam you heard screaming that night. It was me.”

Castiel stared into his lap even when he heard the hand covering Dean’s face slap onto the desk.

He would cry for all the memories recalling that night brought up, but he had shed enough tears then for his lost innocence.

“It was me screaming that night Dean…Sam is not dead. He is very much alive.”


	2. Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recollection

Throughout  _that day_ , Dean had been getting omens, Dean had been seeing signs.

The warnings were there: in John's jacket gone missing, the only thing left of his father besides his seemingly suicidal tendencies and occasional drunkeness.

The spilt salt on the table. He didn't even remember there being salt in the motel room that day, if ever.

The coolness of his skin, the blood beneath the surface...

When looking back Dean thought his body knew of the oncoming terror of that night before it actually happened.

_How?_

_A past life maybe? A sixth sense?_

He didn't believe in any of that hoodoo crap.

 

He believed in the facts, the black and white, what was in front his face.

If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, does ducky things then it's probably a fucking duck.

And what was in front his face, after running from that girl he'd snuck out while Sam was asleep to see (maybe get a blowie, his mind was predominantly housed on the tip of his dick at that age) ...Amy? Lisa? Beth? It didn't matter...

Once he got that phonecall at 11 that night, 15 minutes just spent chatting up that girl cost Dean the next 4 years of his life.

 

* * *

 

 

Samuel Winchester, 16 at that time to Dean's 19, was screaming on the phone, not so much words as wails and short punctuated letters, "De....De.....Co-....Hel...." And the flatline.

Dean was running before the call dropped. Heedless of nothing but his father's words in his head, "Look after your brother boy. Take care of Sammy."

He used to think he hated Sam, hated his father's singular concern for his younger son while Dean was left with nothing....nothing.

So from nothing he became what his father wanted. He became his brother's keeper. But how could he hate Sam? Hate the last thing his mother created....her second legacy.

His baby brother was a part of him, his better part...the Dean Dean didn't think he could be.

His favorite memory of Sam, which he replayed over and over in his frequent times of weakness after Sam's funeral, was Sam's first word.

He had been standing with his father over Sam's crib, watching the small boy gurgle and laugh and he found him curious and unattractive. In his little child's mind he could not see the appeal of a baby.

But when Sam raised his pudgy arms and wiggled his fingers, and said through a mouthful of spit, "Bean! Bean!"

Dean figured...a brother couldn't be all that bad, if just hearing his name and being trusted to lift him up and the happy gurgles were anything to go by... He thinks he already loves him.

 

* * *

When Dean made it back to their room, he cursed his father's absence for the first time since he discovered that to rely on his father was to be let down.

He punched on the locked door, slammed his shoulder against it.

He heard murmurs and grunts and  _oh God, oh God. What are they doing? Oh God oh god..._

SAM!

He'd shouted, he'd screamed.

A burly man came out and around him, through the now open door, Dean saw his nightmares, Dean saw his hell.

It was if everything was in slow motion. He saw 5...6...men, as big and bigger than the one who met him at the door. All covered in tattoos and balding, sweaty, red from exertion...

They were huddled in the center of the destroyed room, on the dirty shag carpet he and Sam had rolled around like puppies in just this morning...another lifetime ago.

Their pants were around their knees. Dean was flooded with the scents of sweat, sex, fluids....God....

All he saw of the figure in the middle was a pale hand grasping the carpet, it's grip white knuckled....and the screams....God the screams....

Dean was pushed back by the man who confronted him, startling out of his tunnel vision, as he's screaming SamSamSamSam on a loop.

ImcomingtogetyouSam, ImsorrySam, OhGodimsorry.

"Hey sweetness, if you want your turn you're just gotta wait." The man leered at him, acrid breath nearly knocking him unconscious.

"Let me pass," he snarled even as he pushed on the man, legs sliding on the wood floor. GettoSam, he had to get to Sam.

"Uh uh uh" the man actually wiggled his finger.

"No free passes."

Dean saw red even as he smelt blood coming from the room.

He can't remember where he got the glass shard, but he knows he dug it so far into the man's face that he struck bone.

He registers a commotion in the room now as the others scramble to help their friend.

But Dean is too far gone. He keeps stabbing, keeps hitting him. His hands are covered to the elbow in blood as he sees gaping holes in the mans skull...sees pieces of brain on his clothes...but it is not enough.

He hears police sirens as the other men grab him off the man; they punch and kick him and he hears Sam whimper in the room. His eyes swell fast and he can see nothing.

He hears shouts and he screams, 'Save my brother! He's in there, save him!"

He is jostled and kicked and his rib breaks he think, but his wounds don't hurt as much as knowing he is responsible for this, it's his fault.

_oh God Sam._

He hears new voices, gentle hands as they raise him up.

 _Saviors? More torture_?

He hears shoes clacking as they enter the room but he doesn't hear the whimpering any more. Something is wrong. Sam?

He hears them say... _the body...oh god the kid....what do we...call it in...not good...bad...so much blood....won't make it...._

And then he knows nothing. His eyes roll back in his head, his body is a mass of pain. He's a wreck.

Sam is _gone_. His purpose is _gone_. _The one thing left is gone_.

And Dean is nothing again.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short bit of Dean's story. More details in the next chapter. Hope you liked.


End file.
